


Unlikely Event

by Letterblade



Category: Elsinore (Video Game)
Genre: (but what the fuck else can you do in Elizabethan Denmark), BDSM Is Not Meds, Bondage, Edging, Gags, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: Friday, 1:20 AM, Hamlet's Chambers. Unlikely event: Horatio helps Hamlet clear his mind. Under the current conditions, this event will not happen, and the choices that led there were made years before the game.





	Unlikely Event

**Author's Note:**

> I feel slightly rude inaugurating the tag for this truly excellent game with straight-up porn about its biggest depressed fuckboy, but the scene simply would not leave my mind. Going to create new character tags, as the Elsinore versions are quite specific all around, though largely in ways not touched on in this brief indulgence. Now go play time-looping Ophelia-as-the-protagonist Hamlet!

They’re hot skin-against-skin in the close haze of the late night, dark of the moon, heavy door barred, and with only one bare candle to light them, Hamlet still glows pale, whip-thin and trembling in Horatio’s lap. He would have snuffed the candle, but Horatio insisted. One must be able to see the color in a bound man’s hands.

Hamlet had almost faltered at that, tight-wound and profoundly fucked up as he was, and even the sigh of surrender he gave as he offered his wrists was choked halfway through.

Horatio took care, of course; fencer’s hands. Bound behind him, a few turns around his chest so he could not wriggle free so easily. That would defeat the point. He’d strained, struggled until his shoulders corded and he panted for air, as Horatio held him with fingers digging into the nape of his neck and waited for him to ride it out. Waited for his eyes to haze just a little and his head to sag as the gnarled sinews in his body eased.

“Only you,” he’d breathed, somewhere in the course of it, and Horatio had nudged his head up and kissed him deep and prying for that.

“Yes,” for an answer, perhaps minutes later, with Hamlet still seeking his lips. “No other shall ever see you like this. But I shall treasure this, my prince.” One edge: a promise to a man ever-conscious of his blood. The other edge: a subtle thrust, stoking his ever-burning self-consciousness, and it burst to color on his cheeks. So it is with this: pushing him hard to fumble and yield, tempered only by profound trust.

The fatal blow had been the knotted cloth between his teeth. Protested, head turned away with an unbidden groan even as his bared cock twitched red between his legs. “God, no, I can’t—it’s too—“

His hair may be shorter than Horatio’s, but enough to grab a handful of, hold his head back with his throat bare. Apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, lips parting. “Do you mean that?” Horatio asked, low and kind.

One buck in his arms. Eyes squeezing shut as Hamlet battled himself.

“No.” A torn whisper, at last. “No. I don’t mean that. Take what you will of me. Please.”

Horatio gagged him with utter tenderness, running fingers over his stretched lips, planting kisses on his heated face. Wordless, with speech mangled. Hardly silent, even now that he’s arranged them with his bound prize sprawled over his lap, all a tangle of limbs, with one of Hamlet’s legs trapped so that he cannot move his hips. Crucial, that. One hand at the nape of his neck, cradling him, easy enough to tug on his hair or the knot of his gag to send him ever more reeling in his helplessness. The other spit-slick on his cock. Slow.

Hamlet’s trying for silence, he can tell. Tiny, stifled noises, even as his eyes burn with tangled emotion and the flush spreads blotchy all down his chest. The occasional struggle still, especially as Horatio trails fingers off the blood-hot head of him on each lazy stroke. Still far too proud to beg, nor try to give his thoughts incomprehensible tongue. Horatio kisses his temple, tender, and the kindness earns him a heedless whine, yearning. Horatio tightens his grip, speeds up his hand just a little; Hamlet’s leaking, purpling, fit to burst, velvet-soft skin sliding with the slick of his own desperation, and another stroke and he twitches, and another stroke and his balls tighten—

Horatio lifts his hand.

Hamlet gives a strangled curse, straining hard in his grip, yet all that does his arch his chest and bare his neck between Horatio’s pinning thigh and his hand fisted in his hair. Bound hands scrabble, fist white-knuckled.

“Ssshhhh,” Horatio breathes, pulling Hamlet’s head close to nuzzle his hair, and all the struggling cracks on a whimper. Time enough to fall back from the edge before his hand floats back to Hamlet’s straining cock, light and gentle. It might ache, Horatio knows, to be so rudely denied. Let the ache build until the storm breaks.

Hamlet rides out the second denial in silence except for little whines in the back of his throat, plastered against Horatio with his face buried in the crook of his neck, tiny and violent shivers running through his body. The third, he bucks and struggles, hard enough that he almost unseats them both, until Horatio catches him cruelly tight by the knot of his gag and asks if he would prefer to be bound entire to a chair. The jolt that runs through his body, the way he strains ever-more to press himself against him, is answer enough to that.

The fourth, he’s almost limp, like he’s trying to ride those waves of aching desire, until Horatio’s hand leaves him and he _wails_, cracked and muffled, and starts rocking a little in his arms. He’s clever, Horatio knows, even with his reason sodden tip to toe with every overwrought emotion and desire burning through him. He must realize what Horatio’s pushing for after mere meek acceptance did not win his reward.

Fifth. Impasse. His cock is purple, straining, near a conductor to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Black eyes squeezed shut again, faint sheen in his eyelashes near as Horatio can see in the candlelight, and that almost gives him pause, and he runs fingers soft through Hamlet’s hair and he leans his cheek against his shoulder with a trembling breath and nods. The ache, at least, is sympathetic; Horatio’s almost dizzy with his own arousal, and glad he planted them both so solidly against the bedstead, but he’s sworn himself not to back down.

Sixth. Something cracks open in black eyes. One muffled, half-grown _please_ as Horatio’s hand floats off his uselessly pulsing cock.

Horatio drags fingers through his hair again, rough and inexorable, and keeps his face where he can see it. Hamlet falters at that, almost closes back up again. A single brush of fingertips round his nether head pries him open again, and the only binding on his tongue is the sodden cloth in his mouth. Horatio can hardly make out the words, isn’t sure how many are rambling nonsense, but there’s no anger left in him, no pride. Another stroke, coaxing, and Hamlet begs. Begs ever more frantic at a slow stroke that lifts to nothingness.

Horatio kisses his forehead in benediction. Holds his tongue, not quite daring—there is only one acknowledgment his prince needs, only one that might not shatter his fragile pride. Though he does not let Hamlet hide his face as he finally spills to a few firm, triumphant strokes. Holds him tight and locks his gaze as he slips over the edge, wracked by a climax so delayed as to be devastating.

Only after he recovers a little does he thank him, a soft murmur in his ear, and praise his beauty.

Hamlet shudders only a little at that, crumpled and wrung out against Horatio’s chest, and Horatio finally, slowly, picks free the knot of his gag.

“Oh, god,” Hamlet breathes, faint and fervent and raw as he works his jaw and swallows, and Horatio kisses him deep and tender. His lips are red, slick, and Horatio _aches_ to be between them, and traces them roughly with his thumb in question.

The answering nod is heedless, affection blooming like spring flowers in black eyes. It would be lovely, really, to have Hamlet on his knees at the edge of the bed, but that’s far too much bother, and Horatio helps him down, still bound and now exhausted, to merely pillow his head on his thigh and turn his face to his reward. It’s adoring, messy, far too swift, and perfect, with soft groans as he plays with Hamlet’s hair and guides his head. But Horatio could hardly be expected to last after witnessing _that_, not without playing a similar cruel game with himself.

Hamlet’s far gone enough to not care in the least when Horatio’s seed joins the spatter of sweat and spit on his face, and the grin as he nuzzles his thigh is luminous, bursting all the way to his eyes.

The world and all his pain will crash back down soon enough, Horatio knows, but for this moment, at least, he’ll cherish that. Those smiles are rare as diamonds.

“I am,” he murmurs after a few, “unfair to you, Horatio. If I could give you but a fraction of what you do me…”

Horatio hushes him, just gently, and picks sticky clumps of hair off his temple. “You do. Take my uncommon swiftness as sign of that much.”

Hamlet snorts a laugh, legs twisting in the sheets as he tries to wiggle closer, and Horatio catches him, drags him up to an embrace. “’Tis true. I have rarely known you to be lightning to the draw.” Face back in the crook of his neck, messy and adoring. “Measured and savoring of your pleasure, generous beyond what could possibly be rewarded in a lifetime, a very paragon of men…”

He keeps rambling, soft and sporadic, as Horatio loosens his bonds, rubs his shoulders and the red bands ringing his wrists. Traces his temple. “How is your mind?”

Hamlet blinks, slow and a little in awe. “Clear as the sunlight that pieces the clouds after a storm, lacing still waters.” He’s silent for a long while. A slow sigh. Arms sliding round Horatio’s chest. “I only wish it could last. I am still…lost. Far at sea.”

“I know.” A kiss to his temple, soft and sad. “I know.”

“But you,” Hamlet murmurs, curling on his chest, “are ever the sun.”


End file.
